by Dee Ernst
“Well, I picked ones that smelled good,” Diane said apologetically. “I didn’t realize there was some kind of Rose Protocol.”
Mrs. Whitmire sighed, and led Diane back to her roses, and for the next hour gave Diane a fascinating and helpful lesson in how to prune, and when, how to wrap the roses against wind, and what to do the following spring. Diane thanked her, thanked Ed, and spent the rest of the day outside, starting to clear dying plants, raking, waiting until it was late enough in the day to call Michael in England. He had been staying at Seth’s, and he had given her the number there. She tried to calculate the time difference, knowing he stayed late at the studio.
He answered on the second ring, angry, tense. “Now what?” There was noise in the background, voices raised.
“Michael. Hello.”
A pause, then - “Wait a minute.” He yelled something, then she heard a scuffling, and the sound of a door closing. “Diane? Please tell me it’s really you.” He sounded hoarse. She felt a lump in her throat.
“Yes, it’s really me. The rose expert from Hell was here this morning. She made me feel two feet tall, but she was very helpful. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I’m always thinking of you.” He stopped. She could feel him, over the miles, reaching for words. “It’s terrible here. Prescott is a madman. He found another producer for the soundtrack. Seth and Joey are furious. Prescott still doesn’t have a final cut. This movie is supposed to be done, opening in December, and he’s still changing things. David Go quit twice already.”
“Oh, Michael,” she said softly.
“How is your play?”
“Opening in four weeks. It’s going to be good, I think. It’s hard for me to tell, but Sam is happy.”
“How are the girls? Is Megan still in love?”
Diane bit her lip. “Yes. They’re fine.” She was sitting on the floor of her den, knees drawn up to her chest, clenching the phone so tightly her knuckles were white. “I miss you.”
“I don’t know when I can come home.” His voice was so low she could hardly hear him. “I can’t leave now, it’s impossible. It’s all falling apart. If I sent you a ticket, could you come?”
Her heart leapt. “Of course. Next weekend. Would it help?”
“The situation? No. If God himself came down, Prescott would probably tell him to mind his damn business.” Michael sighed. “But it would help me. I’m going crazy here. It would be so much better if I could see you. I didn’t – this was a mistake, coming here. I should have insisted on Toronto. I shouldn’t have let him bully me. It’s just, this is – I didn’t want to blow this, you know?” He sounded exhausted, defeated. “I may have blown it anyway.”
“No, Michael,” she said quietly. “I know how important this is to you. You’ll get it done.”
“Maybe. No, you’re right. I’ll get it done, one way or another. I have to go.”
“Yes. Good-bye.”
“Diane?” She heard voices again, loud, arguing. “Diane, I have to go. Bye.”
Jasper jumped lightly up, balancing on her knees. She scratched his ears absently, thinking about London. It was one of her favorite cities. She would go to London to see Michael. Jasper purred, and she sat for a long time, phone in hand.
Michael leaned his head back against the wall and let the phone drop from his hand. He could hear Seth in the next room, raging at Prescott. Seth had started doing lines of cocaine at three in the afternoon, and now, all those hours later, Michael knew Seth was totally out of control. Prescott knew it too, but Gordon Prescott thrived on tension and discord. He was one of those people happiest when all those around him were miserable. Prescott had been a happy man for weeks now.
Last night had been the last straw. Michael refused to look at what Prescott had called ‘the final cut’ of the film. Michael had only two days before he finished what he thought was the last bar of music that he would have to write for Prescott. But Prescott had arrived at Seth’s house just outside of London with yet another version of his film, and Michael had finally, finally lost his temper. He would not re-write anything else. David had done all the orchestration, they had been recording all day. Michael could see a light at the end of what had become the longest tunnel he had been ever seen in his life. He was not doing another note.
Prescott had wheedled, promised and begged. Michael, drained and miserable, had walked out of the house. When he returned an hour later, after walking aimlessly around Seth’s posh neighborhood, Seth and Prescott were locked in a battle over the soundtrack.
It had been decided, way back in June, that Seth and Joey would produce the soundtrack, including all the cuts by the other contributors to the CD. Upon arriving in London, they found that Prescott had made an agreement with a new Irish band, Daemon Spirit, who was also going to be on the soundtrack. Daemon Spirit would produce their own tracks. With the tracks for NinetySeven complete, that left only four more songs on the soundtrack, and Daemon Spirit wanted to produce those as well. Seth and Joey had been fighting with Prescott and Daemon Spirit for weeks, in and out of the studio. Michael, having written a lovely ballad to be sung by Moira MacCauley, tried to stay out of it, but it was proving impossible.
Moira MacCauley had presented another set of problems. She was a beautiful girl, just twenty-two, all ready an established star in Europe. She met the band at a party given by Prescott early in September, a vast feeding frenzy for the press. She immediately attached herself to Joey Adamson, despite the presence of Joey’s wife. Joey had never considered his marriage a deterrent to any sexual detours he felt worthy of exploration. After ten days, his wife left for an extended tour of the Italian Riviera, and Moira became a fixture.
Michael, Seth and Stephanie had moved into Seth’s house, but Michael did not spend much time there. He had been locked in with Prescott and David Go, grinding out what he knew was some of the most interesting and innovative music he had ever written.
He had embraced the challenge back at the beginning of the summer, but now he was worn down by Prescott’s constant interference. He wanted the soundtrack completed, so that he could get back to the States. He missed Diane so much it became an almost physical effort to keep from driving to the airport and simply flying back to her.
Prescott had brought up Quinn Harris a few weeks before. Prescott, at sixty-five, considered Quinn Harris a weak upstart who would never get beyond the acclaim Harris had achieved when he directed his then-wife, a renowned actress. Prescott had read a bit in one of the tabloids about Harris in Manhattan, and had stormed into the studio to rant against him to whoever would listen. When he left, Michael casually picked up the paper and read the offending article.
It was a brief item, stating that Quinn Harris had recently spent an evening attending a performance of the 13th Street Chorus. Harris had been a guest of the mother of one of the cast members, and had taken the entire ensemble out after the performance. One of the cast later said that Harris was a ‘charming, talented and generous’ man. Michael knew all about the 13th Street Chorus. He and Diane had attended a few of their shows over the summer, watching Rachel. He knew that it was probably Diane who took Quinn there, and why not? Rachel was a talented girl. Being seen by someone like Harris could act in her favor.
The following week, Stephanie brought home another tabloid, whether by accident or design Michael never asked. Quinn Harris was pictured on page seven. Standing next to him, in elegant profile, was Diane. The accompanying article described a dinner at the world-famous Pierre Hotel, given for the arrival of Sir Derek Shore in New York by his soon-to-be-director. The woman in the picture was not identified. She was described only as being Harris’ companion, a close one, apparently, since they were seen kissing in the lobby at two o’clock that morning. Michael spent a long time looking at Diane’s face, tracing in his mind the curve of her cheek, the hollow behind her ear. Michael had learned not to believe half of what he read in some of the British press, having seen the most outrageous articles abou
t himself published there. But a picture was something else. Harris had his arm around Diane’s waist. She was smiling, obviously enjoying herself.
Michael had been in London over four weeks by then. He knew that every day was going to be a battle. He had spent very little time away from the studio. Once or twice, Seth had talked him into a drive, a half day away from London, to help him clear the cobwebs.
He was incredibly lonely. He had politely declined the countless offers of women, and men, who would have been more than happy to accommodate him in any way. He felt no conscious desire for sex. He was always tired, under tremendous stress, and was beginning to drink more heavily than he had ever before. Seth and Joey consumed vast amounts of cocaine, but Michael had always stayed away from drugs. Alcohol, on the other hand, was becoming a factor.
He began to spend time with Jane Whyte, an assistant of David’s who, as far as he could tell, tried to sleep with every musician she came into contact with. She was pleasant, cheerful, and did not take his refusal of her sexual advances to heart. She just smiled and said she would have to keep trying. He didn’t take her seriously. She made him laugh. He was in desperate need of someone to make him laugh.
The night he saw Diane’s picture with Quinn Harris, he called the car to take him back to the studio. David was there, working of course. David was always working. David knew that if he could make a success of Prescott’s movie, his career would be assured. A tiny man with huge ambition, he listened stoically to Prescott’s rants, agreed with everything the director said, then went back to what he had begun in the first place. David Go knew that Michael had written music that was going to win awards, and he was determined to stick around for the payoff. He quit, then returned, at least twice that Michael knew of.
Jane Whyte saw Michael wandering down the hallway and knew at once he was troubled about something. She intercepted him before he could get involved in something that might change his mood, dragged him out the front doors, and took him to the nearest pub. He was drunk after the second pint, his brain and body too tired to offer any resistance to alcohol. Jane tried her best, supplying a comforting shoulder and a sympathetic ear as he poured out his story. She kept one hand on his thigh, the other playing with his hair. He finally turned to her, bleary-eyed, and she kissed him, a long, deep kiss that sent shivers down her back, but when she pulled back and looked at him, his eyes were so blue and sad, something in her heart twisted.
“What is it, love?” she whispered, “didn’t you like it?”
“Don’t do this, Jane. Please.” Michael’s voice was low, his shoulders slumped.
“Come on, my flat’s just around the corner. Don’t sit here and be all sad. So, your lady is stepping out. Just step out yourself a bit. You’ll feel so much better, really.”
“She’s not stepping out,” Michael insisted.
“Well, you told me you saw her picture, right? So, let her have a bit of fun. You’ve been over here for weeks. Did you think she’d just sit at home and do a bit of knitting?”
“No.” Michael buried his head in his hands.
“So, come on then. She’d never know. Wouldn’t you like to just stretch out somewhere soft and quiet?” She moved her hand higher up his thigh.
“Don’t, Jane,” he said tiredly. “I’m not going to fuck you, so just stop.”
“What are you being so bloody loyal for, anyway?” Jane asked, annoyed.
“I love her, Jane.”
“Then why the hell don’t you get her over here?” Jane hit his arm. “If she’s so fuckin’ wonderful, she’ll come, right? I know I would. I’d be over here in a flash.”
“Would you?” Michael looked at her intently. “If I asked you to fly for hours just to spend the night with me, would you really?”
“Love, for a roll in the kip with you, I’d walk to fuckin’ China. Why wouldn’t she, if you two are so in love?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Michael said sadly. “I don’t actually know if she loves me or not.”
“What?” Jane stared at him. He was beautiful to her, his eyes deep blue, his mouth soft and slightly parted, his hair falling down across his forehead. “Oh, now Mickey, how could she not love you? “ She brushed away his hair and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re such a darlin’, really you are. Call her and tell her to come and when she gets here, fuck her brains out. Believe me, she won’t mind a bit.”
He cracked a smile. “Do you think?”
“Come on, let me get you home. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Let’s go.” She pulled him off the stool and walked him back to the studio. She knew she was only one more pint away from having him naked in her bed, but she didn’t have the heart. Perhaps, she thought, she could find another way.
Diane called him two days later. She would come over to London. As he sat in the darkness, listening to Seth and Gordon Prescott scream at each other, he didn’t care. She was coming to London. That was all that mattered.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
QUINN CALLED HER Monday morning. “I’ve learned my lesson, Diane. I was out of line. Please, have dinner with me? Just dinner - I swear. It won’t happen again.”
“Do you know there’s a rumor going around about the two of us?” she asked accusingly.
“Rumor? Oh, I can imagine. University is just one big opportunity to gossip, isn’t it? Are they saying anything terribly naughty?”
“Quinn, Michael’s sister is on campus. Angela Bellini.”
“Oh. Blast, I’m sorry. Are you afraid she’ll report back to him you’ve been misbehaving?”
“No. It’s not that. I’m just - ” Her shoulder slumped. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you miss him, I’m sure,” Quinn said briskly. “When is he due back?”
“I don’t know, but I’m flying over there this weekend to see him.”
“Ah.” Quinn paused. “Well then, why on earth would you worry about any silly gossip? Please, have dinner. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to eat with the secretary of the Dean of Admissions again. The woman has been stalking me, I swear. Hovering outside my classroom at precisely three-fifty-six, asking what I’m doing after class. I feel positively threatened.”
She agreed, laughing, and they went out after his class, and later walked back to the train station, and she sat with him, waiting for his train, talking.
When she got home, it was still early, barely eight. Emily was upstairs, music blaring, and Megan and Becca Griffen were in the kitchen, bowls everywhere, obviously trying to bake something. Diane looked wearily at her kitchen.
“Why did you feel you had to do this so late, Meg? I’m not cleaning this up, okay? Becca, how could you let her rope you into this?”
“Well, she had dinner at my house, Mrs. M., but my mom said no dessert, and Megan said you wouldn’t care.” Becca grinned sheepishly. “It’s brownies. You can have some.”
Diane shook her head, and headed upstairs. She pounded on Emily’s door. The music stopped, and her daughter threw open her door.
“Gee, Mom, glad you could make it home. What was it tonight? Did you have emergency surgery to perform? Finding a cure for cancer? Rescuing some poor stranded kitten?”
Diane exhaled loudly through her mouth. “Emily, you have been a bitch on wheels for weeks now. Rachel told me that your father was taking care of the car situation. If that’s still why you’re so pissed off, please act out at his house, not mine.”
“Did you sleep with him here?” Emily asked angrily. Her dark eyes were blazing, her thin body tense.
Diane’s mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about?”
“Alison told me there was a car parked over here a lot this summer. Most times it was some junky old truck, but there was also a fancy silver car, she said. Her mom told her it was a gardening guy for your stupid roses.” Emily was breathing fast and heavy, and Diane forced herself to lean casually against the door jamb.
“Rachel told me all about it, you know.” Emily went on. “Tonight. She called,
and I asked her about the Internet stuff. I didn’t believe it was you, but Rach said that it was, that you had a ‘relationship’ with him. Did you?”
“Yes,” Diane said calmly.
Emily’s jaw dropped open. “Oh. Oh, Mom.” Emily cast her eyes around the room. “I can’t believe it. Is that why you were so happy for us to spend the summer down the shore? So you and your ‘boyfriend’ could play house all summer?”
Diane kept her voice quiet and steady. “Emily, you asked to spend the summer with your father before I even met Michael. You asked me, remember?”
“How convenient for you, though. I bet you hated the idea of us coming back.” Emily’s voice was shrill and harsh. Diane could feel her daughter’s anger like a wave.
“Emily, I asked you all summer long to come back home to spend a few days. You’re the one who wanted to stay down there. I had to drive down to see you. Is any of this sounding familiar?”
“Did he come with you? When you drove down to Long Beach Island?”
Diane shook her head. “No. He was never with me. I wanted to spend the time with you, honey - you and Megan.”
“Where was he when we came up in July?”
“He went to Toronto. But if he hadn’t, he would not have been here. I would not have had him stay here when you girls were in the house.” Diane said emphatically.
“But when we weren’t here, did you sleep with him, Mother? In our house?”
“Michael and I are grown-ups, Emily,” Diane said quietly. “And what I choose to do in my own home is my own business.”
“Oh, that’s right. It’s Michael. You’re in that special little group, aren’t you? The ‘Call Me Michael’ group.” Emily spat out the words.
“He also asked you to call him that, Emily,” Diane reminded her, trying to keep her own rising anger at bay.
“I wonder if that meant he wanted to fuck me too.”
